Goodbye, Doctor. It was fun while it lasted.
It always is until they no longer interest me.
1
Chanel
He grunts—I hate him.
Grunt.
Grunt.
Grunt.
Just imagine it.
But he isn’t the worst.
He’s just… a grunter.
Again, it could be worse.
Tonight isn’t a typical bad night, but I’m over it already.
His grubby hands grip my waist, and I instantly want to roll off and tell him he needs to go home and fuck his damn wife. Stop being unfaithful. Go home to his kids and spend the money on them.
But why would I do that?
That would be like cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face, right?
He pays nicely, and I’m a whore. A hooker. A trollop. A prostitute. Whatever they like to call those of us who let men pay us for sex.
The client always takes off his wedding ring, like it’s sacred to him. Like this little soirée is meant to be some sort of secret that the ring might give away, but we always know the truth.
Let’s face it, it’s mostly married men who engage in our services. The ones who want things they are too afraid to ask their partners for but are more than happy to request from us. Probably because they’re paying and trust that no matter how much we might think of them as scum, we aren’t going to voice it.
And believe me, I’ve wanted to voice it.
Many, many times.
But then again, I have no right to say shit.
Why even stay married, though?
If you’re not happy, just leave.
Not one person in the world is stopping you, except you!
I don’t ever see marriage in my future. I’m what you’d call ‘from the bottom of the barrel.’ Trash. I know it, and I also know that no respectable man will ever want me.
And I’ve come to terms with that.
I’ll let you in on a little secret—the respectable men usually stray. Yes, I know, not what you wanted to hear, right? It’s not always what you think…or should I say, who you think would use our services.
And these so-called ‘respectable men’ where do they end up, you ask?
In this cheap-ass hotel room telling me all about their wife at home and what she won’t do. Some, as I said, like to keep it a secret, but most want to vent out their frustrations.
She doesn’t like doggie.
She won’t suck my cock.
I want to call her a whore in the bedroom, but I’m afraid she’ll take it personally and leave me and I don’t want her to leave me.
But, hello! So instead, you cheat and fuck other women?
Let’s be real in this and not tell lies.
They all lie.
All men lie.
One day, when I meet a man who doesn’t lie, I may just marry him—guess that says everything because I doubt there is one out there.
I don’t for one minute believe that statement.
In my line of work, they are liars, cheats, and bastards.
Even this asshole, who I am currently sitting on, and not fucking. No, he just wants me to grind on him.
This shit does nothing for me.
And let me tell you, when I was a teenager, I used to love it. But with someone I don’t find attractive, no matter how hard I try to replace the face with some hot celebrity, I can’t seem to get into it.
“Fuck yeah, baby, you like how that feels.”
“Oh, yeah, baby.” The lie slips from my lips so easily. No kidding, I could be an actress.
Mental note—start looking into auditions.
Could I be any more disinterested? Now I’m thinking about impossibilities.
He moves faster, and I know he’s almost there.
Men have weird desires, but this one isn’t out of the ordinary, so I have it easy tonight because it could be far, far worse.
“Tell me how much you love my cock, you dirty little slut.”
See, he’s one of those who wants to talk to his wife like this, but is too afraid.
“So much.” I pretend to fake cry out in pleasure when really I want to cry out in frustration.
His eyes light up at my believable expression and he bites his lip.
“Let me kiss you.” He groans that way men do when they’re close, and I totally ignore his command. I watched Pretty Woman once, and the no kissing thing kind of stuck. I’m saving that for the one that might mean something to me. Yeah, even that sounds ridiculous to me.
I pre-warn them all.
They all agree, until they’re in the throes of pleasure.
Most will try.
None ever succeed.
If I must give away my body for money, you can guarantee I’m not about to give away my kisses to just anyone.
But as I grow older, I think the one is elusive and will be harder and harder to find.
The guy’s phone starts ringing. He glances at it, but he’s too close now so he won’t stop. The cell quiets, then rings again. This time it’s a different ring tone, and within seconds, he has me off him and thrown to the side, his cock still hard as he gets up. I stand, brushing my hair to the side, and stare at the wet patch on his jeans.
“Sir,” he answers, and his eyes fall to his cock. He takes a moment to fix himself up.
That, for sure, isn’t his wife, which I assumed it was. He nods his head a few times and looks back at me. His eyes skim my dress, but he continues listening to whoever is on the other end of the call.
I gather my purse and look back at him.
He holds out the rest of the money to me, and I walk over to take it. When I grip it, he doesn’t let go.
“Okay, sir, I’ll be right there.” He hangs up.
“I take it that isn’t your wife.” I smile.
“No, but I’m more afraid of him than my wife.”
I nod. There’s only one man in this city who could evoke that level of fear, and I stay well and truly far away from him.
“You should stay. I’ll be back later.”
“No can do, big boy.” I give him another fake smile. “I have things to do. You know this.” They know they have to book time with me. They can’t just order me to come back whenever they want. It won’t fit in with my schedule.
This isn’t a hook-up for my pleasure. This is what they pay for, so it’s all about their satisfaction. Believe me, I get nothing from this, ever.
“I want to see you again.”
I glance down at his ring. What was his name again? I can’t remember. I choose to not remember their names. It’s easier that way, so I pat his chest and hum, “You know what to do, then.” I pull the money from his grasp and head toward the door.
“Tell me something.”
My feet stop just before the door, and I turn around to face him. He’s watching me intently, his round belly hiding under his button-up shirt. “Do you enjoy it, or is it all fake?”
I give him my only answer; the one I give every client—I wink before I walk out. As I leave the room, I hear a soft laugh behind me.
Outside, the sky is black. It may storm tonight, it may not, I can’t be sure.
So I call my brother, and he doesn’t answer.
Then I call my neighbor, and luckily she does.
“Where is he?”
She’s quiet.